⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ! | okay first off, WHY is this SO FUCKIN EMOTIONAL for no absolute reason. damn. consider this a 1000 follower special! likes & reblogs are appreciated! 𖹭
[𝜗ৎ] 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 : 2.9𝗄
𝓜𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏!
my husband hates me.
the thought settles deep in your chest like a stone, familiar and heavy, as you lie on the silk sheets of the massive bed.
your fingers trace the embroidered patterns on your robe—some floral design you can't see but can feel beneath your fingertips. the fabric is soft, expensive. everything here is expensive. everything here screams luxury and power and wealth.
but none of it screams love.
you hear nothing from his side of the bed.
the man is so impossibly quiet, it makes your skin prickle with unease. you've been here for three months now. three months as the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, the most feared ruler in all the lands. and in those three months, he has barely spoken a word to you.
at first, you thought it was a game.
some twisted test of patience. you were clever enough to know that political marriages were rarely about love. you'd been prepared for indifference, for coldness, for a husband who saw you as nothing more than a strategic alliance.
but this? this silent treatment that stretches night after night, this deliberate distance he keeps?
it cuts deeper than you expected.
your hand moves from your robe to your stomach, pressing against the plane of your belly. you're small. you know this. delicate in a way that makes people underestimate you. and blind. gods, the blindness. the one thing that has sent every single suitor running in the opposite direction.
princes would see your face first—the one they called ethereal, otherworldly, beautiful in a way that seemed impossible—and they'd fall to their knees.
they'd whisper sweet words, promises of devotion, declarations of love at first sight. and then you'd speak, and they'd realize your eyes didn't track their movements, didn't meet their gaze. and slowly, painfully, you'd listen to them pull away. hear the hesitation creep into their voices. feel the distance grow until they were gone.
you were used to it.
but sukuna? sukuna had looked at you once, for a single moment, and said yes. the entire empire had been shocked. the king of curses, the ruthless murderer, the emperor who had never shown interest in any woman, accepting a blind bride from a neighboring kingdom? it was scandalous. impossible.
and you'd felt hope.
you hate yourself for that hope now.
because three months of silence have taught you the truth. he doesn't want you. he tolerates you. and honestly? you'd almost prefer cruelty. at least cruelty would be a reaction. at least cruelty would mean he saw you as something worth acknowledging.
but this nothingness? this endless, suffocating nothingness?
it makes you feel like you've already disappeared.
the servants guide you through your days with practiced efficiency. they dress you, feed you, lead you through the palace halls. you've memorized the layout of your chambers, the path to the gardens, the number of steps from your room to the dining hall. you've learned to navigate this world without sight, just as you've always done.
but you can't navigate him.
you don't know where he sits at meals. you don't know if he watches you. you don't know if he even notices when you're in the same room. his presence is a void—a massive, oppressive absence of warmth that you can feel but never touch.
tonight was bad.
you'd been led to the gardens by a new servant, someone who didn't know your habits. she'd taken you left instead of right, and you'd walked straight into a hedge, thorns scratching your calves before she'd yanked you back with a flurry of apologies.
then you'd almost fallen down a staircase—the grand staircase with its uneven steps—your foot catching on the edge, your heart lurching into your throat as you'd pitched forward. a guard caught you just in time.
and the whispers.
you can't see their faces, but you can hear their voices. the concubines. the noblewomen. the servants who think you can't hear them.
"the blind empress."
"does he even notice her?"
"i heard he hasn't touched her once."
"what a waste of a pretty face."
"she must be so lonely."
"she must be so pathetic."
you'd smiled through all of it. kept your head high, your shoulders back, your voice steady. you learned long ago that showing weakness only invites more cruelty. so you'd walked through the halls with your practiced grace, your cane tapping against the marble floors, your face serene.
but inside, you were crumbling.
and now, lying in this massive bed, with your hair spread across a silk pillow and the scent of incense curling through the air, you can feel him beside you. he's so close. you know he's sitting up, his back probably against the headboard, his presence a heavy weight in the darkness.
does he ever sleep?
you've never heard him snore. never heard him shift in his sleep. he's so still, so silent, you sometimes wonder if he's even real.
a long, long time passes. the candles burn down. the incense fades. the night wraps around you like a shroud.
and you can't take it anymore.
"ryomen?"
your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. you hate how small you sound. how vulnerable. you'd wanted to sound strong, confident, demanding. instead, you sound like a child calling out in the dark.
silence.
you wait. count your heartbeats. one. two. three. four. five.
just when you're certain he's ignoring you, just when the familiar ache of rejection settles into your chest, a voice cuts through the darkness.
"what."
it's gruff. low. a single word that rumbles through the air like distant thunder. and it's the most he's said to you in days.
you swallow. your throat is dry. your fingers twist in the sheets.
"i...i want to ask you something."
more silence. you can feel him staring at you. you can't see it, but you can feel it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable.
"ask."
you take a shaky breath. this is it. this is the moment you've been building toward for three months. the question that's been eating you alive, consuming you from the inside out.
"do you hate me?"
the words hang in the air between you. they sound so small. so pathetic. you wish you could take them back, but it's too late. they're out there now, exposed and raw.
"hate you?" his voice is strange. almost...confused?
"because of...because i'm...y'know, blind." the words taste like ash in your mouth. "i know it's...i know i'm not what you expected. i know i'm not the best option. i know i'm—"
"stop."
the word is sharp, and you flinch. your breath catches in your throat. you brace yourself for anger, for cruelty, for him to finally confirm what you've suspected all along.
but instead of harsh words, you feel movement. the bed shifts. his weight moves closer.
and then, without warning, a hand wraps around your waist and pulls.
you let out a frightened shriek as you're yanked from your position, your body colliding with something solid and warm. your hands fly out, grasping at fabric, at skin, at anything. you're on his lap, straddling his thighs, your chest pressed against his. he's so big—so impossibly large—that you feel like a doll in his arms.
"ryomen!" your voice is high, panicked. "what—"
"quiet."
his hand settles on your thigh. it's huge. calloused. rough in a way that sends shivers down your spine. but the touch is gentle. impossibly gentle. he strokes your thigh once, twice, a soothing motion that slowly calms your racing heart.
"you really think," he says slowly, his voice rumbling against your chest, "that i hate you?"
you can't speak. your throat is too tight. you settle for shaking your head against his chest, even though it's a lie.
a low sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh. his hand slides from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes across your lower lip, feather-light.
"open your eyes."
the command catches you off guard. "what?"
"your eyes. open them."
you blink, confused. your eyes are already open. you can't see anything, but they're open. you tell him as much.
"no." his voice is strange. softer. "i mean...look at me."
"i can't see you."
"i know." his thumb traces your jawline. "but i can see you. and i want to see your eyes. please."
please.
the word catches you off guard. the king of curses, saying please? to you?
you don't move. don't breathe. just let him hold your face in his massive hand, his touch devastatingly tender.
"i don't hate you," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "gods, woman. i could never hate you."
your heart stutters. "then why—"
"because i'm fuckin' terrified."
you blink. "what?"
"do you know what i am?" his hand slides from your face to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "i'm a killer. i've been killing for centuries. my hands are stained with blood i'll never wash clean. i'm rough, and violent, and i don't know how to be gentle."
"but—"
"but when i saw you..." he trails off. his fingers tighten in your hair, just barely. "when i saw you, i couldn't breathe. you were so beautiful. so small. so... perfect. and i thought, 'she's too good f'me.' , 'i'll break her.' , 'i'll hurt her.'"
his voice drops to a whisper.
"so i stayed away. because every time i look at you, i want to touch you. and every time i touch you, i'm afraid i'll destroy you."
tears prick at your eyes. you don't understand. you can't understand. this entire time, you thought he hated you. you thought he found you repulsive, broken, worthless.
but he was...
...afraid?
"you don't hate me?" you whisper.
"no." his forehead presses against yours. "i love you. i've loved you since the moment i saw you."
a sob escapes your throat. it's ugly and raw and you can't stop it.
"but you never—you never talked to me—"
"because i didn't trust myself." his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. "because i knew if i started, i wouldn't be able to stop."
"then don't stop."
the words leave your mouth before you can think. they hang in the air, bold and desperate.
"don't stop," you repeat. "please. i don't want you to stop."
sukuna goes still. so still that you wonder if he's stopped breathing.
"you don't know what you're asking."
"i do." you reach up, your fingers finding his face. you trace the planes of his cheeks, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "you're my husband. i want you. all of you."
"i'll hurt you."
"i don't care."
"i'll break you."
"i don't care."
his breath hitches. and then, finally, finally, his lips crash against yours.
the kiss is desperate. hungry. it tastes like three months of longing, of confusion, of aching loneliness. his hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth. his tongue slides against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you give it willingly.
he tastes like sake and power and something darker. something that makes your toes curl and your heart race.
he pulls back, breathless.
"tell me to stop, and i will."
"don't," you say immediately. "don't stop."
he groans. his hands slide down your back, gripping your hips, and he lays you down on the bed. you fall against the silk sheets, your hair spreading around you like a halo. you can't see him, but you can feel him—his weight on the bed, his heat surrounding you, his breath ghosting across your skin.
"m'gonna show you," he says, his voice low and rough. "m'gonna kiss every inch of your body. gonna taste you until you scream my name. i want to make you feel so good that you forget every single doubt you've ever had about yourself."
your breath catches. "ryomen—"
"let me." his lips brush against your neck. "let me show you how much i love you."
you nod, unable to speak.
his hands find the tie of your robe. he undoes it slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been waiting centuries to open. the fabric falls away, cool air hitting your skin, and you shiver.
"beautiful," he breathes. "so fucking beautiful."
you feel his lips on your collarbone. soft. worshipful. he kisses down your chest, his tongue tracing a path between your breasts. his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, and you gasp.
"sensitive," he murmurs. "good. i'll remember that."
he takes one nipple into his mouth. his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a desperate moan. he laves at you, sucking gently, nipping with his teeth until you're writhing beneath him.
"more," you gasp. "please—"
"patience." his voice is a dark promise. "i haven't even started with ya' yet."
he switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. you're already wet—embarrassingly wet—and he lets out a low growl when he feels it.
"fuck," he mutters against your skin. "you're soaked. f'me?"
"yes," you whimper. "only you."
he groans. his fingers slide through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you buck into his touch.
"tell me what you want."
"i want—" you gasp as his thumb circles your clit. "m'want your mouth."
his laugh is dark and breathless. "demanding little thing, aren't ya'?"
"please," you beg. "ryo, please—"
"shh." he kisses your stomach. "i'll give ya' what y'want."
he moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire. he kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees. by the time he reaches your core, you're trembling, desperate, aching.
and then his tongue touches you.
you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. he laps at you like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"taste s'good," he mutters against your skin. "could eat ya' forever."
he sucks your clit into his mouth, and you scream. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, his massive hands gripping your thighs. he alternates between sucking and licking, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.
"that's it," he praises. "let go f'me...lemme taste ya'."
his fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you without warning. two fingers, thick and long, stretching you. he curls them, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you shatter.
you come with a scream of his name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you. he doesn't stop. he laps at you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're sobbing from the intensity.
when you finally come down, he crawls up your body, his lips finding yours. you taste yourself on his tongue, and it's the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
"m-more," you whisper. "m'want more."
his eyes—you can feel them—search your face.
"are you sure? we can stop. we can—"
"i'm sure." you reach for him, your fingers finding his chest. "i want you...please."
he hesitates. you feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he's barely holding onto.
"m'bigger than ya'," he says, matter of factly. "a lot bigger. and i have...i have two dicks, woman. i don't know if—"
"i don't care." you pull him closer. "i trust you."
he groans, pressing his forehead against yours.
"if it hurts too much, tell me. and i'll stop."
"okay."
"promise me."
"i promise."
he shifts above you, and you feel something heavy and thick press against your thigh. and then another. two cocks. the thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through your body.
he aligns himself with your entrance, and you feel the tip pressing against you. he's huge—so much bigger than his fingers—and you wonder if you can actually take him.
"relax f'me," he murmurs. "breathe."
you inhale deeply, and he pushes in.
just the tip, and you gasp. he's stretching you in a way that's almost unbearable. it hurts. there's a burning sensation, a pressure that's too much and not enough.
"shh," he soothes. "you're doing s'well. so good f'me."
he pushes deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you feel your body struggling to accommodate him, your walls clenching around his length. and then—
a sharp pain.
fuck...you forgot.
you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. he stops immediately.
"did i hurt ya'?"
you can't answer. the pain is fading, replaced by a strange fullness. you feel something wet trickle down your thigh. warm. sticky.
blood.
his eyes slowly flicker down, and you can hear his breath stop. he's tense. too tense.
"fuck," he hisses. "you're—you're a fuckin' virgin?"
you nod weakly, biting your lip. your heart is pounding fast. loud. "is that...bad?"
"no." his voice is strained. "no, it's not bad. i just—fuck—i didn't know. i would have been more careful, woman."
"you are being careful," you whisper, fingers pressing into his shoulders "keep going."
"you're fuckin' bleeding."
"i don't care. please. i want to feel you." you sniffle. god, the pleasure is making you bold. too fucking bold.
he lets out a shaky breath. "you're going to kill me."
but he pushes deeper, slower this time. gentler. his lips find yours, kissing you softly as he sinks into you. the pain fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that makes you moan.
when he's fully sheathed, he stops. lets you adjust. his forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged.
"y'feel incredible," he breathes. "so tight. so...fuck...perfect."
"move," you beg. "please."
he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. the friction is delicious, the stretch exquisite. he sets a rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate—each thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"ryomen," you gasp. "r-ryo—"
"i know," he murmurs. "i know, doll. feels s'good, doesn't it?"
"yes—yes—"
his hand slides down your stomach, pressing against the slight bulge where he's buried inside you. the feeling makes you moan.
"look at that," he says, awe in his voice. "you can feel me, can't ya'? right here."
he presses down, and you feel it—the outline of him inside you. it's obscene. it's incredible.
"more," you gasp. "harder—"
"y'sure?"
"yes—please—"
he obliges. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.
"gonna come," he warns. "where do you want it?"
"inside," you gasp. "please—i want to feel you—"
he groans, his hips slamming into yours. and then he's coming, hot and thick, filling you so completely. you feel it—his release pouring into you, painting your walls, claiming you from the inside. his cum is already trickling down your thigh, oozing out of your cunt.
at the same time, he's stroking his other cock. you feel the wet spurts hit your stomach, warm and sticky.
he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you. his face buries in your neck, and you feel his breath, ragged and uneven.
"i love you," he whispers, gruff. it's funny. you've always thought the word love doesn't exist in his vocabulary. but here he is, saying it over and over again. "i love you so much it terrifies me."
you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer.
"i love you too."
a long moment passes. then another. and then—
"we're going to do that again."
you laugh, breathless.
"right now?"
"after i clean you up." he kisses your neck. "and then again. and again. and again. until ya' can't walk."
"promise?"
he pulls back, and even though you can't see him, you know he's smirking.
"promise."
you're already half asleep when he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. his lips press against your hair, your forehead, your eyelids.
"my wife," he murmurs. "my perfect, beautiful wife."
oml hubby!nanamin reminding you to breathe during smex!
sorry for such the long hiatus loves :((
“where do you feel me baby? tell me.” you nails dug into the back of the man currently fucking the shit out of you, to the point where you were incoherent. your thighs pressed against your sweat glazed torso, his hips harshly colliding with yours, hitting the deepest and most sensitive spots you have.
“mmm! n-hereeeee!” you weakly moved one of your hands to your womb. he smiles, kissing your lips and then making home on your sensitive neck. where his moans and groans went straight to your ear.
nanami makes LOVE. he never fucks.
he wants you to lose yourself in the pleasure he gives you, always to the point where you’re overstimulated and almost can’t take it.
one thing nanami always noticed was how you don’t breath whenever you guys have sex. it’s not like when you ask him to slightly choke you, or when he shifts his weight on top of you when you guys are in prone bone. it’s whenever you guys are intimate in general, he has to stop and remind you every time :(
“baby, baby. breathhh.” he halts his hips, holding your face so your gaze is only focusing on him. not even a second passed and you’re gasping in and out, tears cradling down your brown cheeks. “there you go baby, there you go..” he slowly picks up his thrusts again, causing you to whine and whimper. trying your best not to fall into the habit of holding your breath again.
“m’gunna cuhmmm n-nana!” — “that’s my good girl. y-yeaa.” the knot in your stomach about to burst. his tip constantly hitting that spot that makes you feel dizzy. “it’s t’much!”
you whined. pushing against nanami’s abdomen, attempting to halt his thrusts for a moment. but he didn’t let up. “uh, uh baby. let out for me, let it out for your nana.” grabbing your wrists, and pinning it above your head.
the knot in your stomach snaps. squirting all over your husbands and thighs, coating them with your essence. it wasn’t too long until nanami reached his high. quickly pulling out and finishing on your stomach.
“did so good for me baby,” he lifted his hand from your wrist, using it to caress the side of your face.
pairing: iida t. x fem!reader
note: nobody believes you when you tell them that your very studious bf can in fact, match your freak ! (saw some yummy iida hcs on tiktok and now he's on my mind again. i don't think i've ever written for him though??)
content: suggestive, mentions of sex, university au, iida is a nerd LMAO, crack fic in a way???
wc: 1.1k
divider by: @strangergraphics
"You can be honest with me. What do you even see in Iida? I love the guy, but I can't imagine him being very good in bed." A very drunk Kaminari asks you for the fifth time tonight. You sigh, turning towards Kirishima.
"Kiri, could you take Kami home? He's drunk." Kirishima nods eagerly, and strangles the blond out of Mina's apartment. He yells goodnight to everyone and tells Mina he'll be back later. She giggles and nods.
By now, the party has died down and there's only a few of you left. Mina of course, because she hosted this gathering, Shinso who had nothing better to do, Jiro who was in charge of music, Urakaka, and yourself.
Mina skips her way over to you having overheard Kaminari's question.
"Honestly, I'm wondering the same thing! Likeeeee is he good in bed?" Somehow you find the question less offending coming from Mina's mouth than Kaminari's.
You throw a teasing smirk her way as you start to pick up red solo cups that have been long forgotten by party goers. "He's better than good."
Mina's mouth hangs open in disbelief, "Really? I can't imagine him being anything but a gentleman."
"That's what a lot of people say." Luckily for you, the topic of your boyfriend is dropped and the five of you clean up the rest of the party with some good tunes from one of Jiro's many playlists.
A groan escapes your lips when you check your phone. It's one in the morning, and all you want to do is shower. You underestimated how long you'd be helping Mina out. It always baffles you how college students seem to have no common sense when it comes to being respectful in someone else's space. Mina's place was a mess after the party.
Putting that all behind you, you unlock your door.
"Hey, baby, I'm back." Tenya's probably asleep you assume, but you call out anyways. He couldn't join you at Mina's party due to his thesis. He's been working so hard at it, and the last thing you'd want is to distract him.
"Hi, love. How was the party?" A groggy voice responds. A smile immediately takes over your face when Tenya pulls you in for a hug. He buries his face into your neck, and you can feel his lips brush against your neck.
"It was fine, the cleaning part sucked, because some people don't know how to act." As soon as you finish your sentence, the crimson eyed man kisses your neck. A gasp leaves your lips.
"Sorry... I just missed you." He pulls away enough to look you in the eyes.
"You don't need to apologize; I was just taken by surprise is all." You grab his hands and give them a little squeeze.
Without a word he scoops you up into his big, strong arms, "Well, shall we take this to bed?"
"What's the occasion? Are you ovulating or something?" You joke. You can hear his socked feet pad on the ground with purpose as he takes you to your shared bed.
"Don't joke, honey. I'm this close to ravishing you." You're at a loss for words when you hear him say that. His voice is dripping in something dangerous.
"Tenya, love, I have work at three so I need to get out of bed." You aren't exactly sure when you went to sleep, but you know for sure you fell asleep during the second round with him.
Tenya kisses your shoulder. The two of you have been a tangled mess of limbs throughout the morning.
"I don't want to keep you from your obligations, but everything about you is purely intoxicating." The man sure has a way with words, because you consider skipping work for a moment.
Another kiss is planted on your very marked up shoulder. As a matter of fact... every part of your body is marked up. You find that very unusual, as Tenya never tries to mark you up, unless you ask, of course.
"I don't think I'll be able to hide these..." You say.
Tenya smiles, "Good, maybe Kaminari will learn how to mind the business that pays him." You perk up at that, the sheets uncovering your upper body in the process. It wasn't the fact that he had used your lingo that you were confused.
It was the fact that he somehow knew about Kaminari's remarks from last night. "How'd you even know about that?"
"He drunkenly texted me early dawn, asking how I could possibly satisfy someone as beautiful as you. Let's just say... I felt the urge to prove that I could."
Your eyes widen in shock. Tenya has never been one to flaunt his bedroom skills, because he believed that it wasn't really anyone else's business. So, hearing that Kaminari provoked him enough to prove him wrong had you aghast.
You let out a small chuckle, "So that's why you were such a hornball when I got back."
His face scrunched up, "'Hornball' sounds distasteful."
"My bad- that's why you were so needy when I got back." He doesn't even indulge in your teasing.
"I'll make something to eat while you get ready." He groans as he gets out of the bed, and reaches for his glasses that he discarded last night when they started to fog up in the midst of your sexual endeavors.
"Thank you, Ten!"
After finishing your closing shift, you decide to join Mina and a few others for dinner. She and Bakugo were cooking so, of course you'd be there. Tenya asks you to bring him a plate, which you had already planned on doing anyways.
"Knock knock!" You yell out into the apartment as you walk inside.
A few 'hellos' echo throughout the place. You take off your shoes at the front door as to not track anything you've stepped on today into Mina's place.
The smell of food overwhelms you to the point that your stomach urges you to hurry along to the kitchen.
Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero were sitting on the couch watching something, and if your ears don't deceive you, you could hear Izuku snorting in the dining area.
"Hey guys!"
Kaminari spares you a glance before his jaw drops, "What the hell happened to you?" Kirishima and Sero turn their heads to look at you too.
Sero smirks, "I'm pretty sure her boyfriend happened."
"He sure did." You agree with a chuckle.
Kaminari just stares in disbelief, "I didn't think he had it in him."
"I swear nobody believes he's freak. He is crazy about me, dude. All you did was rile him up."
Kirishima howls out in a fit of laughter, and Kaminari goes red at what you're implying.
"My condolences to your body."
"All good, I had fun." You send a smirk his way before walking into the kitchen to make small talk with Mina.
Even after your boyfriend proved he could very much satisfy you, you'd still get the question every here and there as to why you'd date him. It didn't bother you much, because you knew that he was indeed a freak like you.
blue and grey banner by the amazing: @uzmacchiato !
katsuki with a shy girl who only lets him eat her out if he has a blanket over his head...
he tried to do it a couple times before, only to be met with your thighs clenched around his head and your face stuffed in a pillow — pulling him up by the collar of his shirt as you ignore the ache between your thighs and mutter that he "doesn't have to do that"
and katsuki knows what he can do, prides himself on knowing how to eat pussy, how to make his girl feel good — and he's determined to get to the bottom of this.
so, the next time he's kissing down the valley of your cleavage and feels his hair being tugged as he reaches for your waistband, he decides enough is enough.
"why won't you let me do this"
your hands loosen their grip in his hair, "katsuki—"
"please, you're killing me here" he mutters, bringing one of your hands towards his lips as he kisses your palm, "just wanna make you feel good"
it's clear he wasn't taking your excuses this time, especially when he can see your slick soaking the thin fabric of your panties when his mouth gets just a little too close.
so, you give him an ultimatum...
and katsuki's mouth is ruthless, as if he's been depraved from something so divine all his life — because he has. his head bobbing under the sheets as he listens to your stifled moans. he comes up for air between licks, forehead dewy and hair stuck to his face as he watches you with glossy eyes.
and katsuki never complains, cause if this is the only way to have you as loud as he wants you to be — he'll choose that damn blanket every time.
a/n: do we fuck with the blurbs horndogs? i like writing them when i feel like i have an idea that doesn't need a whole fic 🤔 also then i can provide for your freakiness a little faster ykyk -> masterlist. | comments and reblogs greatly appreciated! 💋
HOW TO SEDUCE YOUR ACADEMIC RIVAL, AN ESSAY BY IZUKU MIDORIYA.
❤︎ SYNOPSIS: you and izuku are academic rivals. he as a plan—a semi-stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless—a plan to make you fail your last final of the semester. he just has to figure out how to seduce somebody, first.
❤︎ CONTENT: f!reader, college!au, enemies to lovers, crack treated seriously, know it all!izu vs know it all!reader, battle of the know it alls, glasses!izu, eventual smut, big bakusquad cameo bc fuck it we ball, i said izu is a babbler so i made him babble, dacryphilia, blowjobs, doll!pet name…18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: inspired by @/dyhun’s academic rival fic, but they deactivated, so i can’t link it :((. if they still exist somewhere else, pls let me know! somebody! also, i know nothing abt debate. or smart ppl stuff. I WRITE IN MY ROOM ALL DAY, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME I—
♫ NOW PLAYING: she did it again, tyla ft. zara larsson.
read on ao3 | 8.4k words | masterlist.
YOUR MAJOR doesn’t have that many students. Apparently, those interested in the overlap between Philosophy and Classics at Yuuei are about twenty a year.
The first semester of college is easy, as expected. You’re the top of your classes, also as expected, and comfortable. Whether graduating summa cum laude matters to collegiate professors is beyond you, but it mattered to you in high school, and it matters to you now—being the best. And, you thrive behind books instead of the fields, so academic prowess it is.
Your second semester is a little different.
A guy with forest green hair transfers into your Advanced Philosophy Seminar period (and, you later realize, he moved around to fit Debate Club into his packed schedule—your Debate Club). You didn’t think anything of it, until you did.
Anytime you present a thought you’re proud of, his voice from across the room squeaks an ‘um, actually’ with a smile, before he’s flipping to precise page that proves you wrong. Naturally, you ‘um, actually’ him back, without a smile, and before long, you’re both send hostile glares across the room. (His, hidden beneath a veil of civility, which makes him annoying. Especially in Debate.)
Competition begins to exist outside the classroom—you both search for it. Occasionally, you’ll get a text, accompanied by a picture and a red 100% marked across a piece of paper. And, a middle finger emoji. Occasionally, you send one back. You begin to hate Debate Club—that’s the only reason he got your number in the first place. All because of that stupid group chat.
That led to texting the evidence of every test, every final. Now, it’s tradition. Rubbing a win in the others’ face.
Izuku Midoriya’s ability to absolutely undermine your every exhale makes you want to grab him by the neck, and throttle him.
But, right now? Right now, he’s acting…weird.
It’s the look of vague constipation that catches your attention, initially.
Izuku finds you in the library. He finds you in the library, on your third cup of coffee at eleven in the morning, hunched over a book and a pile of highlighters, pens and sticky notes for annotations. You aren’t exactly sure why, you don’t see him outside of class, unless required (Debate). When you do, it quickly devolves into an argument the moment he corrects something unnecessary, and you snap. He does it on purpose—you know he does.
So, when you see forest green hair at the entrance, you just sigh, redirect your attention, and wait for him to find you. Silently hoping you won’t get exiled from the library, again.
You get distracted with what you’re doing, and forget about him entirely.
“Hey.”
You jump.
“Jesus—Izuku, you scared the shit out of me,” you huff with hand over your heart, but then you take in his face—his vaguely constipated face. Why.
He places hands on the long desk and leans forward with painful determination, but doesn’t say anything. He wavers, like when your roommate got her ears pierced and you didn’t notice for a week. You blink. And then, against your better judgement:
“Are you…okay?”
The spell shatters. His face goes red, and Izuku returns to himself. You wish you could say that you’re less confused.
“I—Yes, obviously. I just, um, had a question, but I answered it, so never mind.”
With bending eyebrows, and you faintly point to yourself. “You had a question…for me?”
“Not anymore,” he grins, before peering at the book you’re hunched over like a live grenade. “What’cha reading?”
With a growl, you pull the book away from him. Far, far away from him. “Why do you care.”
“Curious,” he shrugs, but it’s with a smile that hints he’s only talking to piss you off. At least, he stands up, up and away, and where you can’t smell him anymore. Good riddance.
“Tolstoy.”
Izuku hums with a nod, and squints his nose beneath round glasses. “Mm, yeah…he’s a little pedantic. You should try Dostoevsky.”
The highlighter you hold creaks under your fingers.
Your teeth grit into a smile, and you pray you don’t explode—one more citation from the librarian, and you’re banned for the semester. And, thanks to your roommate, you really, really can’t afford to be banned for the semester.
“I don’t like Dostoevsky.”
“Oh,” Izuku makes a face of light disgust, like he caught a whiff of something sour, and then it’s gone. You blink rapidly—angrily. He scoffs, and runs a disbelieving hand over his mouth. “Wow, um. Okay.”
You scowl.
“Why are you still here.”
“Honestly, great question,” Izuku nods, and you thank your lucky stars when his feet start moving. “I will, um, see you in Debate.”
“Looking forward to it,” you grin. It’s much more of a wince, and it’s to his back, so he doesn’t see. Then, under your breath, out of earshot, you mutter: “Loser.”
“Oi—Deku. The hell was that?”
“She pisses me off so much, Kacchan.”
Izuku hates the way he goes storming a few rows over and where he’s supposed to meet his friend. His face is hot, probably a little pink because he’s sweating, sweating from the angry little fire brewing in his belly. He hates you—God, he hates you so much—you’re rude, and dismissive, and need to get off your high horse and understand that you don’t know it all, that you’re not some cosmic architect with the secrets to the universe, that you’re just as human as everyone else at this school.
Izuku swears he isn’t normally like his—he’s a nice guy, really. He helps old ladies across the street, takes bugs outside the apartment instead of stomping them to nothing, fucking recycles—but, there’s something about you specifically that burrows under his skin, and makes it crawl.
He sits down in a stiff wooden chair, and kicks the empty one beside him until it topples. Katsuki snorts.
“Yeah, I know,” he nods, chucking a thumb over his shoulder, “I mean—why the fuck did you roll up on her like that.”
“Oh! Um, I have a plan,” Izuku slams a determined fist into an open palm, and turns to the blond. “But, it needs…workshopping.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “And, your plan is to what? Seduce her from her schoolwork?”
Katsuki says the last half as a joke, but Izuku goes silent. Katsuki looks away from his laptop to glower properly.
“Deadass.”
“It sounds worse when you say it out loud,” Izuku whines, crossing his arms on the table to he can tuck his head in between them.
“The hell am I gonna do with you,” Katsuki sighs. Izuku doesn’t lift his head.
“Put me out to pasture.”
“Tempting,” Katsuki grunts, and when Izuku looks, it seems like he’s mulling over something. His thumb rubs at his bottom lip with furrowed brows, eyes distant and thinking. Until they are no longer, and they snap to his face.
“Come with me.”
katsuki [11:15 am]
Code Green.
short circuit [11:15 am]
FUCK YEAH
eijiro [11:15]
holy shit deadass
okok lock in boys, get in positions
hanta [11:16]
,,,we’re in the same room ,,,,
Katsuki leads him to a private study room.
It’s dark, and Izuku doesn’t think much of it, assuming his friend will handle the lights. Instead, a heavy hand guides him into a chair by his shoulder, an articulated lamp clicks on. It’s blinding.
“Um…hello?”
Katsuki has disappeared into the darkness. Now, it’s just Izuku, and a lamp. Alone.
“Kacchan?”
“So. You like a girl.”
Not alone.
The voice is definitely not Katsuki’s—predictable gruff is replaced with something boyish, something mischievous, a voice Izuku recognizes as…
“Denki? And—wait a minute, I don’t like a girl.”
There’s a clearing of a throat, and Denki tries again.
“So. You love a girl.”
“Can someone turn the lights on?” Izuku presses against the chair to look behind him, but can’t see much, thanks to the blinding lamp. “This is weird.”
“That’s what I said,” Katsuki huffs, and flicks them on. The yellow canned lighting reveals Izuku at the head of a conference table, with Katsuki’s friends all gathered with hands steepled in front of their faces. Izuku knows them well, knows them enough, but not well enough for…whatever this is.
“What is this?”
“So. You love a—”
Hanta slaps Denki upside the head to avoid making everyone suffer for a third time. The electric blond whines.
Eijirō looks to Katsuki for an explanation, and Izuku’s dear childhood friend snorts as he settles in the open chair beside him.
“Apparently, we’re out here seducing academic rivals.”
“For distraction!” Izuku adds, wholly unsure as to why his business must be aired, and why Katsuki’s friends seem so invested. He sees them sometimes—at the big stuff, a few times a year—but couldn’t say any time he’s talked to them one on one. Eijirō, maybe.
But, Izuku finds himself divulging to the friends that are not his friends regardless. For research.
“I was, um,” Izuku fiddles with the hands in his lap, because, yeah, he sounds a little insane when said aloud. “I tried to…girls like forearms, right? So I like, flexed them on the table, and gave her, like, a look, but um, it…didn’t quite…work.”
There’s a shared look between the semi-strangers in the room, possibly an inside joke, a train of thought he didn’t buy a ticket for, something he lacks the context to understand. Eijirō gives a thoughtful hum, before turning to him.
“And, the problem is…what. She doesn’t like you like that?”
“No,” Katsuki chuckles. “The problem is that he’s bad at it.”
“Kacchan!” Izuku hisses. He’s not necessarily wrong, though. And, this—his friends could help, probably, but like—
“We got’chu,” Denki insists with confidence, mouth finally free from Hanta’s clutches. “We’re all very hot guys with an equal amount of pull.”
The room sighs, and something tells Izuku that is not the case.
But, Izuku is desperate. Folding is easy.
“…What would you have me do?”
Denki pushes away from the conference table, rolling in his chair for a moment, before strutting to a whiteboard in the front of the room. He pops the cap of an EXPO marker off with his teeth, writes in a faded yellow that’s almost too light to read, and talks into the plastic laminate.
“You my friend, need to—”
TIP 1 — DENKI’S IDEA — PLAY HOT TO GET. (LOSE A DEBATE.)
“…Hot to Get…” Katsuki mutters, reading what Denki wrote aloud, before shoving his face into palms and pulling. “Who let him go first.”
“Shut—“ Denki taps the whiteboard with the opposite end of his marker, “the fuck up, Kacchan, and let me lay down the law.”
Katsuki bristles. “I will blow your face off. Don’t you fuckin’ call me—”
“With what? Your hands?”
Katsuki grumbles something under his breath that Izuku can’t quite hear, and Eijirō groans to the ceiling.
“Guys.”
“He distracted me,” Denki defends, before turning to Izuku with a glint in his eyes, like he’s the next test subject in the lab. He points at the greenette, marker in hand, “Now. You.”
“Me,” Izuku straightens.
“You will send,” then, Denki turns back to the board, lower body bowing as he rests a forearm to write in slanted and uneven lettering. He speaks as he writes, and that just makes things messier. “M—i—xed si—gnals, right? Hot and Cold, you’re there, and you’re not.”
Izuku frowns, struggling to understand how he would even apply such a vague concept. Denki whirls back to the whiteboard, clumsily writing a 1. smushed in the left corner, before starting a second row below it, this time, labeled properly. 2.
“Are these…do they go in any particular order, or are these just general pointers?”
“Pointers,” Denki huffs over his shoulder, still writing furiously, before he pivots. The back of his marker taps the board again with a soft clink. “Look hot. You, my friend, have got to sell the Izuku Midoriya brand, and right now, this ain’t it.”
Denki forms a circle with the marker in the air in reference to Izuku’s…entire self. He looks down at his green zip up and frowns.
“…What’s wrong with my…brand?”
“Ugh, everything,” Denki scowls like it’s been bothering him for a while, Izuku’s ‘brand,’ then turns back to the board. “Send me your closet.”
“Like…a picture?” Izuku asks, because, he kind of needs his clothes, and that sounds awfully expensive to be taken literally. He looks at Katsuki—not exactly sure what he’s trying to find, and the ash blond, who doesn’t seem to either, just shrugs back.
“You dress like a nerd, Nerd—I don’t fuckin’ know.”
Denki, who is now writing 3. on the board, shouts straight into it in hopes the words ricochet enough for them to hear—they do. “Kat, you’d wear a garbage bag if it was socially acceptable!”
Katsuki snorts, chucking a thumb at Denki’s back. “Dumbass is just mad that I’d look good in a garbage bag.”
“Three!” Denki hollers, turning back to the room now, with a huff that has Hanta snorting. “There will be a moment. A Mo—ment, okay?”
He turns his upper body to put stars around the word ‘moment,’ which is already underlined multiple times, circled, and somehow, bolded. Izuku nods.
“Moment.”
“Yes,” Denki nods, pointing the marker at him, before he motioning wild enough that Izuku worries the marker will going to go flying and hit Kacchan in the head, or something, and then they’ll really have a problem. “You’ll feel it—the heat in the air, the glimmer in her eyes. And then, you attack.”
“I just want to distract her,” Izuku pouts, crossing his arms on the table. “Not…attack.”
“Not attack-attack, like—“
“God, I hope not.”
“Quiet, Kacchan, I’m in the fucking zone,” the crosshairs of the marker redirect to his heckler, who bristles until Eijirō places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Attack as in that’s when you go in. That’s when you seduce.”
Izuku blinks slow.
“But…how do I…seduce?”
“That, my friend,” Denki moves to a different area on the whiteboard, where more words sit, circled and underlined, just like ‘moment,’ “is when your natural instincts come in. Now—”
He pops the cap off the marker again.
“Are you a top or a bottom?”
Is this the moment Denki was talking about?
Where it feel like time could stop and there’s a heat in your eye—is this it?
Izuku didn’t even think you’d agree, if he’s being honest.
The cafe part was Denki’s idea—the study part, his. Denki picked out his outfit, thankfully not too uncomfortable or out of character. (He was a little fearful about getting shoved in skinny jeans, and as great as Denki looks in them, Izuku feels like they may choke his knees.) They worked with what he owned until he was left wearing something a slight league ahead what he normally would, and either you don’t notice, or don’t care. But, that’s—
“Thanks,” you mutter, and take the drink he passes after freezing for a beat too long, eyes flicking back to your textbook.
—That’s something, right?
Despite all the effort he put into this, you wear what you always do, literally—there isn’t much in your closet under than high school mathlete t-shirts and college sweatshirts. He knows, because that’s all he sees you in. Meanwhile, Izuku’s eyes still burn from the twenty minutes it took to put contacts in.
He slides into the horseshoe booth, settling himself a little closer than necessary. Five pm sunlight cuts through the window and into the side of your face, and Izuku wavers, before realizing, no, this is tension, and Denki told him to cut the tension with a bold move. Bold move, um—
Deciding to forgo the recommended yawn, Izuku just stretches his arm along the booth behind your head. You don’t say anything about it.
“We got the topic early, this time,” he adjusts in his seat, returning to the reason you’re both here in the first place. Well. The fake reason.
You hum, nodding the head resting in your hand. “‘Perception and truth are fundamentally distinct’—pretty straight forward.”
“Yeah,” Izuku snorts. “Good luck to the Opposition.”
You pop the cap off a highlighter to run it across the sentence. For some reason, you insist on printing everything—something about a sheet of paper being easier to read, to annotate. But, all Izuku hears is the death of a forest and you struggling. “Why?”
“Because, we obviously have the right answer.”
“It’s a debate,” you huff, looking at him with the intensity of a college professor discussing their field. “There is no right answer.”
Izuku whines in consideration, teetering his head as he watches a mother and daughter cross the street. “Eh. There is, sometimes.”
“Well, I think it’s the opposite.”
“No, you don’t,” Izuku shakes his head, positive that you just said it to spite him. His urge to correct your spite and/or stupidity burns, and then, he has to say something, right? He leans his elbow on the table and speaks through a sardonic but polite smile. “Perception is subjective, and truth is objective—fundamentally, they’re distinct.”
“Fundamentally, you’re a pain in the ass,” you hiss, before fixing your face into something palatable again. “You can argue just as easy that perception is truth, because we understand truth through perception.”
And then, beautifully tacked on, the fin of your argument under your breath: “Dipshit.”
Izuku’s smile cracks.
“Does that not negate the literal definition of truth?”
With a yawn, you pull your phone up to glossed lips. The glare you wear so proud never falters. “Hey Siri—definition of truth.”
Siri bah-leep’s to life, and for some reason, yours is a grown man with an Australian accent.
“Truth is the property of being in accord with fact, reality, or actuality, or fidelity to an original, or to a standard, or ideal.”
“See?” Izuku gestures to the phone with an open hand. “Fact.”
You roll your eyes and set the phone down a little harder than necessary. “Fact is literally—it was a fact that the sun revolved around the earth in the 16th century!”
“Holy shit,” Izuku groans into his hands, completely flabbergasted by your idiocy. “Yes, but we have modern technology, now. Technology, that—“
“That we think is right, but who really knows? Also—get your arm off the back of my seat, you creep.”
“Gladly,” he huffs, and does exactly that.
You end it there, snatching the drink off the table to take a long, sugar-fueled sip. Your lips wrap tight around a plastic straw and your glower never ceases, looking through his eyes and into the back of his skull, and Izuku…Izuku—
What was he going to say?
What was he going to say, because he can’t think of anything other than how pretty those lips would look wrapped around something else, something like his—
IZUKU: 0. YOU: 1.
He hates you.
TIP 2 — EIJIRŌ’S IDEA — LOVE LANGUAGES. (ACT LIKE YOU THINK SHE’S SMART. YOU DON’T.)
“Riddle me this, Midoriya—What’s her love language?”
Izuku groans. What the hell is a love language?
Eijirō is perched at the opposite head of table, the one closest to the whiteboard, tossing a marker in his hand without a second glance. The confusion on Izuku’s face seems to explain everything to the football captain, as he starts to prattle on about something that is definitely not a science.
“‘Kay! So, there’s five, right?” He gestures to the board, to something written in red and done before Izuku’s arrival today. “Words of affirmation, physical touch, receiving gifts, quality time, acts of service, good deal?”
Izuku frowns—his head hurts from school already, and you, and now, this. Rubbing a knuckle into his temple, he says, “…I feel like I should be writing this down.”
“Yeah, probably,” Eijirō says over his shoulder without a second thought. Izuku has to shift around him to see the whiteboard better. “Now—looking at the board, do you think you could figure out which one is her love language?”
Izuku bites the inside of his cheek, adjusts thick rimmed glasses, and reads as well as he can between squinted eyes. That, and respectfully, Eijirō’s hand writing isn’t any better than Denki’s—just, somehow, more crooked. At least it’s missing the internet slang.
“Mm…” he hums, and mulls it over, and over, and over again, until he realizes, “no.”
Eijirō deflates a little.
“That’s…fine, let’s just, um,” he looks forward again, tapping the marker on his chin. The cap is still on, but he smears a line of red across his chin, regardless. “Well, quality time isn’t an issue…maybe, like, buy her coffee before class, or something? And compliments—maybe tell her she’s smart?”
Izuku bristles.
“She’s not smart.”
“Oh, but I thought you—”
“So, compliment her and buy her stuff,” Hanta shrugs at the board, before turning to Izuku with a grin, and ultimately saving both him and Eijirō from further embarrassment. “Seems pretty straightforward.”
“Yeah, say she has pretty eyes,” Denki chirps, drumming his fingers against the table. “Girls love that!”
Izuku groans, stuffs a hand into his hair, and hides behind his forearm. There’s no way he’s going to be able to do this. He should give up.
“Too late for that,” Katsuki grunts, reading his mind. “You already got those fuckers involved.”
“I didn’t get them involved!” Izuku says with a shrill whisper, lifting his head to accuse his friend with eyebrows in his hairline. “You did!”
Katsuki shoots him a quick and fake smile, one that reads ‘I know,’ before it drops. His jaw pops under the gum between his teeth, and he moves on, looking towards the front of the room again.
“And, y’know,” Eijirō adds with a shrug, “Maybe, like, a hug, or something—”
“I’m not touching her.”
“O-kay,” Eijirō nods slow, wary. “Well, I think those two things are good to focus on, either way. Oh! And, be manly—open doors, pull out her chair, etcetera etcetera.”
Izuku thinks those are all horrible things to focus on. Compliments? Chivalry? Are you fucking kidding me?
“…Guys, I think he’s gonna combust,” Denki says, eyeing his face. It’s probably red as hell, literally—he probably looks like a strawberry, he can’t help it, he’s pissed.
“I’m…fine,” Izuku whimpers. Though, he imagines the satisfying look of defeat on your face when you score lower than him on your last final of the year, and yeah, no, he’s totally fine.
He’s going to be the reason you fail, and it’s going to feel so good.
“You look good today.”
“I look good everyday, what’s your point?”
The grip Izuku has on the coffee he bought tightens, along with his smile. He places it on your desk.
“Got you coffee.”
Now, you frown, blinking up warily, “…It’s poisoned.”
“N—“ he lets out a sharp exhale, hands lifting and falling at his sides. No matter what he does, he literally can’t win. Just take the damn coffee and be flattered. “Do I look like Maleficent to you?”
You give him a good look. Up and down, studying him like you would a textbook, and it makes his skin crawl.
“Honestly? A little.”
He gives up.
“Whatever,” Izuku says, chucking a hand over his shoulder as he pivots. Luckily, his seat in Advanced Philosophy Seminar is far away from yours—the exact opposite side of the room, in fact. You sit on the left side towards the back, him the right side towards the front. It’s nice to not have to look at your face, but he still has to hear your voice, and that’s enough to enrage. Class begins, and you take all of the participation points. You raise your hand and answer without being called on, like an overactive teacher‘s pet. This is college.
“St. Thomas Aquinas outlined four distinct types of law in his Summa Theologiae, what are—”
“Eternal, Natural, Divine, and Human Law!”
“—and, what’s the definition of Eternal l—”
“Eternal law is God’s rational plan and purpose for all of creation, existing from eternity.”
“Thank you, Ms. L/N. Now—Natural law i—”
“Is the rational creature’s participation in the Eternal Law. It’s the moral code discovered through human reason and examining human nature.”
“Okay, Ms. L/N, thank you, but I would like to hear from your classmates as well.”
The class snickers. You huff, but don’t say anything else. Izuku catches your eye from across the room, mouths the word ‘embarrassing,’ and you flip him off behind your laptop screen.
The next time you raise your hand, you wait to be called on.
“Yes, Ms. L/N?”
“I think St. Aquinas’ biggest fault was associating reason with the church,” you say, wide mouthed and factual, hand still half-hung in the air. It’s kind of cute. “While it makes sense for the time, obviously, most Philosophy was, this risks turning philosophy into a tool for defending pre-set conclusions rather than questioning them.”
And now, Izuku must do the thing he’s been preparing for the entire class. Has to hype himself up for it, actually. His teeth grit, the bitter taste in his mouth already present despite the words still sticking to his throat, and he really doesn’t want to do this.
But also, he really wants to watch you flounder. So.
“I agree with Y/N on that one,” Izuku says, forcing it past his lips in and into actuality. Ew. “He builds a system where reason is expected to say inside a theological boundary. I think that boundary changes the definition of ‘free thinking’.”
Someone else has a rebuttal to that opinion, but Izuku isn’t paying it much mind. He finds you across the room, lips parted and eyes wide, hands tucked in soft balls on both sides of your laptop, bracing for something that never came. Izuku shoots you a smug smile.
Gotcha.
IZUKU: 1. YOU: 1.
You’re kind of cute, though. He’ll give you that.
TIP 3 — HANTA’S IDEA — A VERY PERSONAL, VERY PRIVATE ‘NOT DATE.’ (SWAP SPIT—NOT LIKE THAT.)
Hanta doesn’t even write anything on the board. Just stays where he is, spinning to face Izuku in his chair.
“Okay. We’re gonna pick up where Denki left off with the whole branding thing,” Hanta says with a snap and a point. Denki brings a fist in tight with a small and celebratory ‘yes.’ “What’s something you use everyday that’s, like, physical? Like a sweatshirt, or rings, or…”
“Um,” Izuku goes digging in his bag, hissing when poked by something, before he finds a small and oblong bag full of matching, “No. 2 Pencils?”
Katsuki sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. “…This is depressing.”
“Hey,” Izuku pouts, and Katsuki gawks, pulling out a hand beneath folded arms to gesture to the pencil pouch like it’s a proper defense. It is not.
“How the hell are we supposed to woo a bitch with a pencil?”
“Easy,” Hanta shrugs, leaning into his chair. “You leave it.”
Izuku nearly gasps, clumsily pressing the pouch close to his heart. “But—”
“Nerd,” Katsuki begins carefully, like he’s coercing something feral out of its corner. “There’s a whole pack in there. You can donate one. To fail. Again.”
Izuku groans to the ceiling, and has to remember why he’s doing this.
“Fine,” Izuku exhales through a tight jaw, because he’s only human, and humans have their boiling points—and his, for some reason, is having to deal with you for more than five minutes, and losing one of his lucky pencils in the process. Looking back at Hanta, he loosens his clutch on the pouch. “So, what—leave a pencil, and then what? That’s it?”
Hanta hesitates, lifting a hand for a breath, before pointing at him with two fingers, “Yes and no. I have another thing—they’re two separate entities.”
Izuku sighs. “Okay.”
“Second thing,” the finger guns flip upward and split until they make a two. “Can you get her alone?”
“Uh,” Izuku almost snorts. Why does this feel like an sting operation? Operation it is, but sting it is not. “…How…alone…?”
Hanta looks up and into nothing in contemplation, and only for a moment.
“Like, a date, alone.”
Izuku snorts, chortles, guffaws, and all the other ugly noises that have weird names to match their weird sounds. Shaking his head, he insists, definitively, “I’m not asking her on a date.”
“I didn’t say ask her on a date. I said get her alone.”
Izuku groans in defeat, and now it’s his turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. There is a Debate this weekend out of town, meaning… “Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay,” Hanta snaps, “Do that—take her on a ‘not-date,’ but not like the one before. Make it private, make it personal. Like, at night.”
“Ooh, night time is so romantic,” Eijirō adds with wide eyes, and Izuku wants to do violent things.
“I feel like that’s going to waste both of our time, not just hers,” he mutters, and Hanta leans forwards on both forearms, squinting his eyes.
“Do you like this woman, Midoriya?”
This feels like a trick question.
“…No?”
“Is two hours of your time not a worthy sacrifice to get her to think about you twenty-four seven,” Hanta asks, with a lift of one eyebrow. Izuku’s head teeters in consideration. Then, he remembers—that face. Failure.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” and Hanta slaps a big hand on the table so hard it jolts Izuku’s soul right out of his skin. “Then it’s settled. Now, we gotta teach you how to talk.”
“I talk…fine?”
“Hey, um—I think I left my pencil.”
This is stupid. This is so stupid it hurts.
You look over your shoulder to the No. 2 Pencil that is, in fact, still lying on the hotel desk he left it on. Today’s half of the debate went well, and tomorrow is shaping to be even better—and the whole team crammed inside your hotel room to make sure of it.
But, it’s late, and everyone’s retired to their own rooms by now. As did Izuku—and, he thinks he’s supposed to leave the pencil for longer, probably overnight, but he cannot, in good consciousness, let his lucky pencil rot outside of its lucky pencil case for too long. So. Thirty minutes it is.
“Oh,” you notice, before you walk there and back, pencil in hand. Izuku twitches, thinking don’t touch it, don’t touch it, don’t touch it, but the circumstances are, seemingly, out of his control. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” He wants to pick it up by the eraser, but doesn’t. Is it possible to wash a pencil? He tucks it and his hands into the leather jacket he got while thrifting with Denki, and sucks at his teeth. Now, for the hard part. The other hard part.
“I was…um, thinking of going for a walk, actually.”
You scoff, crossing your arms and tossing a shoulder. “Okay.”
“And, uh, was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
Your sour face curdles.
“…Why.”
“Well, you know,” Izuku laughs it off, taking a sweaty hand out of his pocket to gesture between the two of you. Honestly, his plans were to, like, invite you over for a movie, or something, but he’s sharing room with Shōto, and can’t exactly invite himself into to your room, can he? His mouth positions itself to spew a load of bull, throat tight because he really doesn’t want to do this. “Because, y’know, we gotta build camaraderie between Captain and Co-Captai—”
“There is no Co-Captain.”
“Right,” Izuku lets out a shaky exhale, one filled with rage, because how dare you undermine his role like that, literally everyone knows he’s a spiritual co-captain. “Well. Thought I’d extend the invite, either way.”
You waver, biting the inside of your cheek. That’s when he realizes, holy shit, you’re actually considering—
“Give me five,” you grunt, and slam the door behind you, leaving Izuku and his lucky pencil in the hallway.
Okay. Okay, cool.
You took ten minutes to what—put on a jacket?
Izuku tries to keep his cool on the walk, but it’s hard. It’s hard, when he points out a streetlamp and says he likes the design of the victorian ones, just for you to say they’re flawed because ‘sewer gas destructor lamps’ burned flammable methane and hydrogen sulfide fumes from sewers. He turns to you with a frown.
“You’re really depressing, you know that?”
“Thanks,” you beam. It’s fake, but it makes him feel weird, regardless. “It’s a part of my charm.”
Izuku snorts. Stupid.
So, when you pass a river with quacking ducks by it’s edge, and coo, saying ‘awh, i wish i had bread,’ he makes sure to pop your bubble right then and there.
“Actually, you shouldn’t encourage that because they won’t be able to survive on their own, otherwise—they’ll just live in the pond, probably die from malnutrition, diseases, or bad water quality.”
You blink at him with the most appalled look he’s ever seen. You’re…smiling, though, which is a weird on you. It’s weird, all around.
“And you say I’m depressing?”
“Mm,” Izuku taps his chin and hums like he’s thinking about it. He’s not. “Yes.”
Eventually, you two stumble across an ice cream shop. They close in five minutes, and he doesn’t even like ice cream, but you still in your tracks and stare at the place with stars in your eyes. A disgruntled worker behind the counter sighs, and puts their gloves back on.
Izuku buys your ice cream—and gets himself a cone, too.
He doesn’t know why. He likes sweets enough, and definitely isn’t in the mood for them right now. But, here is, with a waffle cone of mint chocolate chip dripping through the grated slats of a metal table. What a mess.
“Oh my God—it’s so good,” you moan past a spoonful of your own, before scooping another and shoving it under his nose. “Try it.”
Izuku doesn’t give himself much time to think—he’s tired, his brain hurts, mint melts over his knuckles, and he doesn’t know if he has enough napkins. With a distracted hum, he takes the spoonful into his mouth, with no consideration of the fact that it was just in yours.
It’s not until he’s pulling back, spoon halfway out of his mouth, that you also seem to realize your mistake. It’s your small squeak that gets his attention, as he looks at your wide eyes, and he—oh. Oh.
Izuku recoils so quick.
“That’s, um,” he remembers there’s ice cream in his mouth, remembers to swallow, forgets to breathe. “That’s not bad.”
“Uh…yeah,” you agree, also a bit breathless.
You avoid his eyes when you take the next bite, same spoon.
IZUKU: 1. YOU: 2?
Ah, shit.
TIP 4 — KATSUKI’S IDEA — GO GHOST. (MISS YOU, OR SOMETHING.)
“Saved the best for last,” Katsuki tosses up a marker and catches it, walking before the whiteboard in a half-hearted pace. Hanta rolls his eyes and Denki groans, but Eijirō just fist pumps the air.
“Hell yeah, Bro!”
“My pointer?” Katsuki punctuates his words with a heavy tap to the board, to what he wrote in bright orange. “Do fuckin’ nuthin’.”
Izuku sighs. He wants to go home.
Luckily, he’s not the only lost boy, as Eijirō narrows his eyes at the board, leaning forward like Katsuki wrote anything other than ‘FUCKING NOTHING.’ “…But—”
“You’ve done the groundwork,” Katsuki points at Izuku, wholly steamrolling his friend. “Now, you disappear. Should be easy if you don’t like her, right?”
Izuku swallows, nods. His hands lift to the sides of his face, and he’s prepared to drag them down at the slightest inconvenience. “Right.”
He hopes he doesn’t feel as unsteady as he sounds.
“So—go ghost,” Katsuki taps the whiteboard with a knuckle this time, before his pacing restarts. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit—make her realize she misses you.”
“Maybe leave another pencil, give her something to reminisce over,” Hanta waves, absentminded, and Izuku can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s not leaving another pencil.
“…Okay,” he shifts with caution, eyes moving from the very determined pencil thief to his childhood best friend. “But, I still have to see her though, like, for debate and stuff.”
“That’s fine,” Katsuki shrugs, “the most important part is to go back to how things were.”
“Y’know, Kat, this explains a lot about you,” Eijirō hums with a hand on his chin and a vaguely distant gaze. He looks like some red bastardization of the Thinker. Katsuki whirls around with a look Izuku doesn’t understand.
“Watch it, Shitty Hair.”
Eijirō giggles, but leaves it alone.
“…Okay. Then what?”
“Then, you’re done,” Katsuki says like it’s obvious, and it is, it should be, but— “She fails, too busy missing you to study, and you win.”
He wins. Right.
“Um, are you sure?”
There’s a fist in his lap that tightens when a word flashes through his mind. Excuses. Why is he making excuses? He wants this to be over—he hates you.
Katsuki snorts, and gives him a knowing glance. Izuku is just confused as to what he knows.
“Yep.”
Izuku nods. “Okay.”
Okay. He can do this. It’s not like he’ll miss you, or anything.
He misses you—or something.
Or something, probably, because he still hates your guts. You still piss him off in Debate, in class, undermining anything interesting he has to say. So, vice versa—you say one thing and he says another, and that’s that.
Things have gone back to the exact way they were. Almost.
They did. But—
Izuku (11:34 pm)
hey, wyd?
It was a lapse in judgment. And, a lapse in alcohol. You don’t even respond.
Izuku wakes the next morning, sweaty with a unpleasant taste in his dry mouth. He groans, pulling at the knots in his hair, because fuck, Kacchan said no contact, and now it looks like he’s thinking about you. Which he’s not—and when he does, he gets mad. Because, he hates you.
Finals roll around, and he can’t fucking focus.
Not because of you—never because of you. But, because he feels like he hasn’t done his job thorough enough, and while he’s confident, if you get anything above a 50%, he will be a little annoyed. Maybe, he’s setting himself up on that one.
The morning of his Philosophy final, he gets a text.
You (7:45 am)
dont fail too hard
Izuku snorts, rolling onto his back in his bed, and stifles a yawn.
Izuku (9:05 am)
Oh, I’m passing with flying colors
YOU on the other hand…
Then, it’s 9:45, and he’s sat at his desk with his laptop open and ready, watching the minutes count down until 9:50. In that time, he triple checks his notifications, but isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for.
Izuku feels fine when it’s done. Apparently, the LMS has other ideas.
45%
“Forty-five?!”
Izuku groans, sinks deeper into his chair and drags a hand over his face, sending his glasses askew. He’s never scored 45% in his life, in anything. Social skills in middle school, maybe, but that was situational more than anything else.
45%
How did this go so wrong? And, yes, there’s still a writing portion to be graded by human hands, that should bump him up a little, but not nearly enough. Maybe, the teacher will let him re-do it—this is out of character for him. Maybe, he can feign a family emergency, or cite his mental health, or…or…
Izuku tries to pinpoint the exact reason, the exact moment he lost his grip on reality, when—
Ding!
He sighs, opening the messages on his laptop.
You (12:05)
READ IT AND WEEP BITCH
[attached photo]
It’s a picture of you in front of your desktop, with a thumbs up and a grin. Izuku has to zoom to properly see the score—100%, and wants to throw something. It’s when he doesn’t care all that much, stupidly grinning at the picture along with you, that he realizes—
Oh.
“Fuck!”
He slams his head into the desk. It hurts.
This is embarrassing.
TIP 5 — IZUKU’S IDEA — FOLD LIKE A LAWN CHAIR. (A LAPSE IN JUDGEMENT.)
The debate team goes out for drinks at the end of the school semester. As is tradition.
What isn’t tradition, is Izuku actually attending—normally, he sits it out, choosing to stay in with a movie and take-out to recover his poor battered brain. He teeters in the an entrance of a bar he’s never attended, and severe regrets passing on Tenya’s offer to carpool, as he’s left to fend for himself in a sea of people who know exactly where to go.
“Izuku—Hey!”
Oh, thank God.
“Ochako!” He nearly sighs at the sight of a familiar face, and gives her a half-hug in the threshold. “Oh great, I did not want to go in alone.”
She frowns, pointing at the sign, “You’ve never been here?”
Izuku shakes his head. Maybe this place is popular among the students, or something.
He’s proven correct as he steps in, and it’s packed.
Mainly, he assumes, with students fresh out of finals, just like them—dead and trying to resuscitate, with alcohol and weed and whatever other substance will put a pep in their step. The music is loud enough for him to feel the bass in his feet, for glasses rattle on their shelves. He can’t help but wonder if this is a bar, or a club masquerading as one. Wonders how much business they lose during finals season.
Eventually, they weave through the crowd and to a booth. You’re not here, yet—not that he’s looking for you, it’s just that he noticed—and he slides into the booth along with his friend, texts the group chat, waiting for others to arrive.
“So,” Ochako wiggles brunette eyebrows at him, “you and Y/N, huh?”
“Um,” Izuku frowns. “No?”
She giggles, quirking her head. “Was that a question?”
“No,” Izuku clears his throat, “Um—no, we are not…whatever you’re implying.”
“I could’ve been implying that you’re both excellent Co-Captains,” she shrugs, but Izuku narrows his eyes.
“Were you?”
“No,” she snorts, shaking her head, before pointing towards the bar—or, pointing towards a group of people that look like they’re surrounding a bar. “Want a drink?”
He waves a passive hand. “I’m good—want me to get it?”
“No. Just watch the stuff,” she says, already sliding away. “If anyone else comes and they want something—text me!”
He gives a stiff salute, watching her disappear between shoulders and into nothing. (Or—everything?) Izuku gets a little restless, after that. Nightlife isn’t really his thing. He likes hanging out with people, hell, he doesn’t mind a party as long as it doesn’t get too crowded and he can comfortably perceive an exit—but, the issue with college is, everything is crowded.
“Oh—it’s you.”
Izuku lifts his head off the booth to the apathetic voice, and—oh. It’s you, too.
And, you’re not in a mathletes shirt.
No, you’re actually in a dress—a form-fitting one, one that makes him wonder what you look like with it off, and that’s not a very good thought to have about your Arch-Nemesis For All Time.
“It’s me,” he drums his fingers on the table and he forces his eyes at your face, which doesn’t help as much as he thought it would. “Ochako went to go get a drink, if you want something.”
“Nah,” you huff, sliding into the opposite side. You take your jacket off, which is worse, actually, because now he can see shoulders and collarbones, and Izuku understands why the Amish cover their ankles now.
But, it’s okay—all you have to do is open your mouth, and say something that’ll probably piss him off, and the spell will be broken. Yeah, you’re pretty, so what—so are lots of other people.
“Ugh, I want to go home already,” you mutter under your breath. Izuku snorts.
“You just got here.”
“So?” You turn to him, and he can’t tell if the look of pure disgust is because of him, or the environment—probably both. “And I want to go home.”
“Well. I think you need to get out more,” he decides aloud, which is, albeit, a little hypocritical, but you don’t need to know that. He hopes it’ll rile you up, get you normal again, c’mon, look ugly—
“I don’t care what you think,” you growl, resting forearms on the table. Izuku hates the fact that it makes him lean a little closer. The fire in his belly burns just the same—but, different, this time. Sweeter.
“You should,” Izuku clicks his tongue and pouts in faux pity. “I’m, like, really smart.”
The Final stays between him and his laptop. It was a fluke. A fluke!
He hums, settling his chin on a hand, and watches you take the bait. (Except, the fish he catches isn’t quite the fish he expects—the fish he catches is a lot prettier, and he kind of wants to fuck the fish?)
You groan with your head to the ceiling before rolling your head right. Your hands on the table ball into fists, and your tone turns mocking. (Not that his wasn’t.) “You’re, like, really not. You like Dostoevsky.”
His frown borders on appalled, but there’s a smile threatening the edges. “You like Tolstoy.”
“Because Tolstoy creates a whole world, it’s interesting.”
“It’s pedantic.”
“Your pedantic.”
“Your mom’s pedantic.”
You snort, and narrow your eyes, but it’s not a glare—it lacks the heat. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
“No, that’s the best you could come up with, actually,” he points, and you huff when you realize he’s right. Izuku finally lets the smile slip.
“See? Smart.”
“You piss me off,” you spit, and Izuku shrugs.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“And I hate you.”
“Likewise, Doll,” Izuku says with a polite smile. To be honest, the pet name just sort of slipped, but comes out relatively condescending, so he’s not too mad about it.
(Why aren’t you ugly yet?)
You falter. Well, not falter, per-se, but you look at him to ensure he knows what he just said. For a moment, he thinks he sees a glint, until disgust covers that sparkle in your eye.
“Never call me Doll again. That was disgusting.”
“Mm,” Izuku hums, because now, he has a theory to test. “Is Baby better, then?”
“None of them are.”
“Okay,” Izuku nods, just enough for you to relax a little, before, “Doll.”
You scowl and kick him under the table.
Okay, now—is it a lapse in judgement that he’s here? Or is it a lapse in judgement that he wants to be, in the first place?
“Okay, okay—f-fuck—okay.”
The genkan bench is not comfortable to sit on for longer than five seconds. Noted.
“Oh my—fuck, Doll, that’s so good, you’re so good, jus—”
You pull your mouth off of him while rolling your eyes, but not the good kind. Not the sex kind.
“Shut up, you’re embarrassing yourself,” you huff, hand working on his cock as methodically as it writes your essays. Izuku likes you better when your mouth is full, he realizes.
“You’re on your knees for me, and I’m embarrassing?” He chuckles, cradling the back of your head. “Right.”
That gets him what he wants—you hiss, and put him back into your mouth with a purpose. The issue is that the purpose has his toes curling, and the back of his head knocks into the wall. If he didn’t have that drink, this would feel much worse, he thinks.
You laughs at him around his dick, which has to be on a whole different level of disrespect, but it only makes the coil in his belly grow tighter. There’s a new determination in there, when he realizes there’s new environment to remind you of your place in.
This might work.
He forces your head further down, far enough that it wipes that gloating look from your eyes and replaces it with something else entirely, as you choke and splutter but don’t push at his hips. He lets go after that, and you pull off with a snarl and a cough.
“What the fuck was th—”
He snatches the back of your head again and forces it down with little resistance. You choke initially, but he lets you pull back to where you’re comfortable. Once you get too comfortable, he shoves you south again.
“Awh, look at you,” he coos, grabbing both sides of your face to move you, and yeah, this is nice, “Chok—fuck—Choking on me like a fucking slut, huh? Is this how you let the football team do you? No wonder you’re so good at this.”
But, you can’t even respond, because there’s a dick in your mouth—his dick—and that makes him giddy in the way cutting you off in class just can’t, building bubbles in his blood and depriving his oxygen. Izuku feels great—on top of the world, even—until you pinch his inner thigh, and he makes a sound wholly unlike himself. Anymore.
His stomach tightens tenfold.
“What—h-hey—”
You pick up the calm, peaceful rhythm that he set for himself—a rhythm he was relaxing into, thank you very much. It’s not his fault. It’s his arms fault, actually. Or, his hands…they frame your face too well, and when you look up at him, he realizes he’s a little too close for his liking. A little.
“Okay, okay, let—let’s slow down,” Izuku huffs a laugh, and thinks he might be drooling—that inhale was a little wet, “Let’s, um—oh shit—”
You choke on him, willingly, and hard enough to spring tears from your eyes. Izuku does not watch the mascara starts to run at the edges, does not watch the way your lips stretch around him, does not look down your dress and into your chest. Nope. Does not.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no—hey,” he coaxes, practically pleading, and massages corners of your eyes. Bad, stupid, dumb idea—wet mascara smudges under this thumb when it slides, and, you look—you look—
“Shi—it,” Izuku drones, slamming his head into the wall (didn’t he already do that?) as his thighs lock, and he spills down your throat. You cough and splutter, and pull off halfway through, and God, you look—
“The hell, Asshole?” You huff, wiping at the corners of your lips with a sour look on your face. “Warn a girl, fuck.”
—fucking stunning.
“Hey, Nerd—”
“Get out, Kacchan!”
“Yeah, no sh—wait, what the fuck—you didn’t tell me she was hot—”
pushing katsuki away after you cum despite wanting nothing more than to have him smother you with his insane body but you’re too hot to have this million degree skin touching you. it’s the middle of summer, your body temp already running way to high for your comfort and now youre hot and sweaty and sticky and your heart is jumping out of your chest and you cant handle the heat rippling from him.
“kats…you…” you pushing him away, swatting at his massive shoulders but it does nothing. “away. too hot.”
you’re not making sense but it’s because your head is still spinning and blood is rushing in your ears.
“why are you pushing me-hey!”
“too hot. i’m- suki move.” with two hands you shove weakly against his chest and despite not having the strength to move him, he follows your shove and rolls onto his back beside you. “too hot. i feel hot.”
nonsense spills from you mouth as you breath deeply, gulping down cold fresh air (it’s hot air but it’s not straight from the lungs of your boyfriend air and that’s exactly what your body needs) vision that had been darkening begins to clear, your head swirling less dramatically.
the mattress shifts beneath you and the next thing you feel is a cold towel pressed against your cheeks. the relief is instantaneous, a sigh punching from your lungs as you feel another cold rag on your bare chest. soaking cotton is dragged over your stomach, down your thighs and over your calves before it is brought back up to your chest.
“better?” katsuki mumbles from beside you, his large hands wiping your searing skin cool with each pass of the towel.
your response is a pleased hum, lazy smile blooming.
your boyfriend continues to swipe cold lines over your heated skin, cleaning up the mess between you thighs in the process.
“need water?”
“mm-hmm.”
“snack?”
“mm-mm”
a water bottle is pressed to your lips. “drink.”
your eyes flutter open to see katsuki above you, red eyes half lidded in contentment. lips wrap around the straw, sucking down ice cold water to soothe the inner fire racing through your veins. he waits until youre done then takes a drink after you.
“almost made me pass out.” you mumble, fingers reaching out to trace random patterns across his muscled thigh.
“from heat or sex?”
“sex.” you dig your fingers into scarred flesh. “then heat but that was cause of the great sex.”
a/n: idk how to end this. the writers block is so real rn
mating press is heavy on my mind today like not even being able to squirm underneath him because he’s literally shoving you through the mattress with his entire weight. him not even thrusting but letting his heavy cock sit all the way deep inside you as he presses kisses all over your face and reassures you that it’s okay and that he’ll take it slow. and you tear up a little because it hurts just the tiniest bit in this position but then he’s whispering how good you are for him while caging you tight in his arms and
Dating a very shy man who also happens to be a virgin and insists on taking it slow.
Which of course you don’t mind because you love him and things are going so so well! You wouldn’t wanna mess it up by being horny but he doesn’t make it easy for you. Like now, the two of you have had a few glasses of wine between the both of you and it’s like all of the pent up sexual frustration comes back with a deep throb in your pussy. He’s laying back against the bed, eyes scanning your face as the movie finishes on the screen and the credits begin to roll. You toss your leg up so it drapes across his lap and your warm cunt gains a glint of satisfaction by resting against his thigh. He doesn’t even seem to pick up on anything, he just leans down and presses a kiss to your lips and it’s slow, dangerously slow. His tongue slides over your bottom lip and slips into your mouth and you can’t seem to fight the moan that slips from your mouth out of pure desire for the man in front of you. Your hips, albeit slow, moved with a desperation. Your hips were stuttering as you deepened the kiss. His hands slid down your body, one inching down your back and the other gripping the thigh you caged him to the bed with. Somehow it escalates even further, you end up on top of him entirely. Pussy resting directly over the bulge in his shorts, rocking back and forth with so much want that the bed beneath you squeaks as result. You can feel the knot in your stomach tightening with each movement of your hips, all the while the two of you haven’t stopped kissing once. His hands are squeezing your sides, his hips bucking upwards without any hesitation until he simply…stops? You’re confused and you pull away with hazy eyes and swollen lips and he looks up at you with a nervous expression and messy hair and you can feel the way he’s throbbing underneath you. All for you and yet-
“I-I think we should stop here” he says, clearing his throat following a nerdy crack in his voice.
“No no you’re right” you say and scurry off of the man’s lap, eyes immediately finding the obvious wet patch you left on his shorts and your cheeks heat up at your desire being so obvious.
He doesn’t mention it he just pulls you back into his chest and kisses the top of your head, snuggling like nothing ever happened and you wonder if anyone’s ever died of sexual frustration before.
You leaned back against the bed, tears on your eyes, they fixed on the photo of the Tinder profile on your phone, you read Gaz's profile.
Was all what was on his profile plus a blurry photo of him.
tall, military man, loves pancakes
His hands were also on the photo, flexing perfectly to draw any women's eyes.
But there wasn't one thing.
The expensive wedding ring that matched yours, which was on your wedding finger.
The same ring he held in that private mission, right after the kind of missions that makes you remember you aren't eternal.
"I promise to be with you, next to you, till the day I die, there's nowhere else I'd rather be whew I would be half as happy as I am with you"
Those words, the sweet memory of them made an ugly sob leave your throat and you threw the phone to the side carelessly.
Vs
Gaz who snatched the phone from Soap's prying hands
"Fuck off mate!, I hate those dating apps shit, and I'm married!, don't you get it?, MARRIED!"
Gaz practically yelled to a laughing Soap, frustrated, he tried to delete that profile, but he was old, and that was noticeable on the weird way he was holding the phone and the even weirder match he had with "Melissa" that sounded a lot like your best friend's name.
It was Ghost who finally hit the back of Soap's head, which made the Scottish yelp, and said coldly
"Not all of us has a wife and kids to go home, Johnny, delete that shit from his phone"
With a terrifying glare that made Soap gulp awkwardly, and take Gaz's phone.
"M', sorry mate, Ghost's right"
Before he could do anything,a small ping was heard from an upcoming notification, Roach read the phone silently before he got a little pale.
"What?" Gaz asked with dread.
Roach cleared his throat, reading out loud the most recent message from Melissa.
"You're a fucker, asshole I'm sending this to your wife"
Before getting blocked.
They all stood frozen as Ghost's eyes fixated on how Gaz's expression crumbled, but before letting the tears fall off he snatched his phone, muttering a curse, grabbed his jacket and left the pub, heart shattering into a million pieces at the thought of you crying in your shared bed.
it's different from when you're having sex, okay? kissing during sex is rough, passionate― its him making sure that you know he's obsessed with you.
but like when you're lounging on the couch together? you're pinned beneath him. there's tension, so he'll lean in. and kiss you. slow. painfully slow. his hand will hold the back of your neck and glide his tongue across your lower lip. bakugo would pull back a little, dark eyes on yours, and he'll stare with hooded eyes.
"open."
and you would. he'd lean back in and dip his tongue into your mouth. deepening the kiss. this seems like it'd lead to something freaky, but it rarely does.
The topic comes up after you've both been drinking and you start complaining about how you don't know how to write about sex bc all the sex you've had is terrible. He sympathizes and says he hasn't has good sex in quite a while.
You share a look and an idea, but only bring it up when you're sober.
You think you have the much better end of the deal. You get to fuck a handsome man with incredible stamina, but he's stuck with you. You feel bad for benefitting so much from this new relationship. You offer to buy him dinner every time he fucks you, but he refuses.
Of course you have feelings for him, but you never bring them up. You don't want to ruin what you have.
And then he whispers that he loves you when he thinks you've fallen asleep
Lieutenant!reader, who gets called in to help the 141 with an extremely taxing operation, after Laswell insisted that your set of skills will be extremely helpful for the following missions. Price accepted the temporary addition to his team immediately—an extra set of skillful hands was always needed.
Upon your arrival you greeted everyone accordingly, settling into the barracks. For the rest of your first day Soap kept attempting to get to know you, but hell you were even less talkative than Lt, just nodding along or dryly responding to his questions, your face emotionless for the entire duration of the small talk.
Then, Ghost mutters a single dry comment from the corner of the room and you smirk—fucking smirk, nearly chuckle too.
After that, Soap couldn’t stop noticing the tension between you and his Lieutenant.
The lingering eye contact during briefings. The arguments that felt too personal. The way he would stand just a little too close beside you during training, gloved hand brushing your shoulder as he corrected your stance.
“You’re overcompensating,” Ghost said one afternoon behind the shooting range.
“I’m adjusting for wind.”
“You’re adjusting badly.”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Funny coming from someone who missed center twice.”
Soap felt like he was interrupting something with the way the two of you stared each other down like the rest of the world had vanished.
Later that night, he cornered Ghost near the armory.
“What's going on between ya too?”
Ghost didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle. “Nothing.”
Ghost reassembled the magazine with slow, deliberate movements. “You imaginin’ things.”
“I’m telling you, Lt, every time she walks into a room, you both look ready to either kill each other or tear each other’s clothes off.”
That finally earned him a glare, “Drop it, Johnny.”
Soap did. Technically.
But over the next ten months, things only became more suspicious. Ghost always sat beside you during briefings. You always looked for him first after nasty fights out in the field during missions. Neither of you were affectionate, but somehow that made it worse. Every interaction carried this unbearable intensity, like a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
Then the operation ended with the enemy successfully neutralized.
The team crowded into a dim pub near base, Soap sat across from you and Ghost, still mentally trying to solve whatever strange thing existed between the two of you.
That’s when he noticed the silver ring on your finger, he could swear it wasn't there before.
He blinked. “Ye married?”
You took a sip of your beer. “Yeah, for a few years now."
Soap stared at you in disbelief. "Ten bloody months and ye never mentioned that?”
You only shrugged, amused, "I don't really talk about my personal life at work, MacTavish"
“What’s next?” he laughed, turning toward Ghost. “You married too, Lt?”
“Yeah,” Ghost answered calmly.
Soap barked out a laugh. “Aye, right.” He took a sip from his whiskey, "Good one, Lt"
“He’s not joking,” you said as a matter-of-factly.
Soap looked between the two of you slowly.
Everything clicked into place at once.
The staring. The arguments. The tension.
Soap rubbed his temples with one hand, speechless. “Steaming Jesus.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “Took you long enough.”
sukuna gives off the vibe that he only engages in rough sex but unfortunately for you that is not the case. and i say unfortunately bc it’s actually so much worse when he slows it down and holds you close and grinds into you in a way that has you spasming from pleasure. it’s romantic. or it would be if he wasn’t looking down at you like he wants to eat you alive.
The first time you met him, you didn’t even look where you were going.
That’s what Simon should’ve remember most.
Not the way the hot coffee splashed across his glove and the front of his shirt. Not the sharp jolt of irritation that flared in his chest after a long, exhausting morning. Not even the way the café fell quiet for a second, people turning to stare.
But no.
It was you.
“Oh my gosh—oh my gosh, I’m so, so sorry!”
You had practically bounced backward from the collision, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with horror. You looked like you might cry right there in the middle of the cafe.
Simon had frozen, cup still half-tilted in his hand. Most people, when they saw him—really saw him—reacted differently. Hesitation. Discomfort. Fear.
You didn’t.
You rushed forward instead.
“Are you burned? Please tell me you’re not burned—wait, don’t answer that, I’m gonna fix it!”
Before he could even respond, you were already turning to the counter, fumbling with your purse.
“I’ll buy you another one! And—um—like, a muffin? Or something? Because I feel so bad and you look like you were having a morning and I just ruined it—”
“You didn’t ruin it..” he muttered, voice low and rough.
You paused, glancing back at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected him to speak at all.
“Oh. Well… I still feel like I did.”
There was no fear in your expression. No lingering stare at the mask. No flicker of discomfort.
Just sincerity.
It unsettled him more than the coffee scalding his skin.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You came back with a fresh coffee and a blueberry muffin, carefully balanced on a little tray like it was an offering.
“Peace treaty..” you said, smiling nervously.
Simon stared at it… then at you.
“…You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” you cut in quickly. “Also I already paid, so like, you kinda have to take it..”
A pause.
Then, softer, almost hopeful—
“Can I sit? Just so I know you’re not secretly plotting revenge?”
He let out a quiet huff through his nose. Almost a laugh.
“…Fine.”
You beamed like he’d just given you the best news ever. So you sat.
And talked.
God, you talked.
About everything. The weather. The barista who “definitely had a crush on someone but you couldn’t tell who.” The book you were reading but kept forgetting to finish. The way you couldn’t ever find your favorite shade of lip gloss. How you accidentally mismatched your socks that morning and only realized halfway there.
Simon barely spoke.
But he listened.
Because somehow, in between your rambling and your soft laughter and the way you leaned forward like everything mattered so much—
You never once treated him like he was a broken man.
You looked at him like he was… normal.
Like he was just another man in a coffee shop.
Like he was worth sitting with.
And when you finally glanced at the time and gasped—
“Oh no, I’m so late—I’m the worst—I’m sorry, I have to go!”
—he felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
You stood quickly, hesitated, then gave him a small, sheepish smile.
“I’m really glad I ran into you. Well—not ran into you—but, you know what I mean!”
He did.
“Yeah..” he said quietly. “Me too.”
And then you were gone.
No number.
No name.
Just the memory of you.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
He thought about you for weeks.
Way longer than he should have.
It was stupid, really. He didn’t even know your name. Didn’t know where you worked, what you did, whether you had someone already.
You probably did.
Someone soft. Easy. Safe.
Not him.
It was better that way.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
“Got someone I want you lot to meet.”
Price’s voice cut through the room of the diner, casual as ever. Simon leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, only half-listening.
“My girl’s been nagging me for weeks. Thought I’d give in.”
There were a few teasing remarks thrown around—Soap grinning, Gaz making a comment Simon didn’t bother catching.
Simon didn’t care.
Not until the door opened.
Not until you walked in.
“Oh my gosh—hi!”
The same voice.
The same smile.
The same bright, slightly breathless energy.
Simon went completely still.
You looked around, clearly a little nervous—but excited. Always excited.
And then your gaze landed on him.
Recognition hit instantly.
Your face lit up.
“It’s you!”
You stepped toward him without hesitation, like the room—and everyone in it—didn’t exist.
“The coffee guy!”
Simon stared down at you, something sharp and electric curling in his chest.
“…Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He murmured.
“I didn’t either!” you said, almost laughing. “What are the odds, right?”
“Oh.” Price cut in, tone suddenly tighter. “You two know each other?”
You turned back to him, smiling sweetly.
“Kind of! I ran into him—literally—at a café a few weeks ago.”
Price didn’t smile back.
Instead, his jaw tightened slightly.
“Right.” he said shortly. “Well. Sit down, yeah?”
The shift was subtle.
But Simon noticed.
He noticed the way your smile faltered just a little before you nodded quickly.
“Okay!”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It didn’t take long.
Simon was good at reading people. He had to be for what they did.
And what he saw made something cold settle deep in his chest.
You loved John Price.
It was obvious.
The way you leaned toward him when he spoke. The way your eyes lit up whenever he acknowledged you. The way you laughed just a little too quickly at things that weren’t really funny.
And Price—
Price barely looked at you.
When he did, it was brief. Dismissive.
“You were late.” he muttered at one point.
“I know, I’m sorry! Traffic was like, insane and I—”
“Doesn’t matter. Just be on time next time.”
Your mouth closed.
“…Okay.”
Later, when you got excited about something—some story about your day—he cut you off with a quiet, irritated—
“We got it.”
And that was that.
You shrank just a little each time.
Still smiling.
Still trying.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
When you excused yourself to the restroom, the room shifted.
Soap leaned back, watching the door swing shut.
“She’s nice.” he said.
Price shrugged, uninterested.
“She’s… convenient.”
Simon’s head tilted slightly.
“…Convenient?”
“Yeah.” Price said bluntly. “Doesn’t ask for much. Easy to keep around.”
Gaz frowned.
“That’s a bit—”
“She knows what this is.” Price cut in. “Not like she’s expecting a ring.”
Simon said nothing.
But something dark stirred under his ribs.
Because no—
You didn’t act like someone who knew.
You acted like someone who hoped.
And that made it worse.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
When you came back, you slipped into your seat like nothing had changed, offering a soft smile.
“Did I miss anything?”
“No.” Price said flatly.
Simon watched you carefully.
The way you still leaned toward him.
The way you still tried.
The way you still looked at him like he was everything.
And something in Simon snapped into place.
Quiet.
Certain.
Possessive.
Price didn’t see you.
Not really.
But Simon did.
He remembered the girl who bought him coffee like it mattered. Who sat with him like he wasn’t something to fear. Who looked at him—and only him—without hesitation.
apocalypse au sukuna with a fat reader....he's sooo smug about it....most people are starving out there now but look how well he can take care of his girl. why don't you give him a little thank you kiss. and open your legs while you're at it
imagine him finding you while you’re trying to scavenge some gauze at a small pharmacy, hoping that someone left something after all the raidings.
a large hand yanks you by the waist coming from your back and you are ready to kick the bucket, but instead of feeling the sting of a bite, or the tearing of flesh the body holding you is warm, alive.
there's this massive man behind you looking at you with a gleam in his eyes, as if it was christmas morning and you are just what he wanted to find underneath the tree.
“hey there, pretty thing; tell me what you’re looking for and maybe i can help you” he gives you a crooked smile, one that shows too much of his canines as he presses you further against him, “you’ll have to help me back of course, it’s only fair, don’t you think?”
